The chase

It wasn't her first choice, for Seonaid Dunbar had, like her brother, been trained as a Scottish warrior at her father's knee; but fleeing to an abbey was clearly preferable to whacking on Blake Sherwell with her sword -- which she'd happily do before wedding the man. No, she'd not walk weakly to the slaughter, dutifully pledge troth to anyone the English court called "Angel." Fair hair and eyes as blue as the heavens hardly proved a man's worth. There was no such thing as an English angel; only English devils. And there were many ways to elude a devilish suitor, even one that King Henry ordered her to wed. No, the next Countess of Sherwell was not sitting at home in her castle as Blake thought: embroidering, peacefully waiting for him to arrive. She was fleeing to a new stronghold and readying her defenses. Swords and sleeping drafts, Claymores and kisses. This battle would require all weapons--if he ever caught her. And the Chase was about to begin.